The Hunter's Best Man
by ConsultingDetectiveWinchester
Summary: "Sorry." Sherlock sparred a glance over to his best friend, John Watson. He grinned slightly, "Let's play a game." His grin grew larger, although it wasn't his normal smile, this one was dark and evil. Sherlock lowered his head momentarily, only to raise it again. His once blue eyes were solid black. "Let's play murder."
1. Watson and the Winchesters

"Come on, Johnny boy, what'dya waitin' for!?" Dean's voice broke, straining to be heard over the mass chaos. The year is 2005, demons had surrounded the area, Sam is unconscious and John Watson is staring down one of the black-eyed sons of bitches.

"John!" Black smoke fills the air, the body of a once beautiful young woman falls to the ground. The short, blonde man turns 'round to face a bewildered Dean Winchester.

His face is contorted in anger and pain. "I...told you two...to leave me." Watson collapses to his knees, gripping his reddening abdomen. Dean immediately kneels beside his injured friend, dressing his wound in a traditional army style. "

"Yeah, and when have we ever listened to you, Britt?" John's frustration quickly melts away with a hearty chuckle. "Sam alright?" Dean spared a glance over to his younger brother, lying unconscious near the door.

"Yeah, he'll live. Been through worse."

"Hell and back, ey?" Dean's green eyes met John's blue ones. They hardly ever spoke of Hell, their journey there. It was traumatic for both Winchester brothers, especially Dean. "I.. I'm sorry, Dean, I shouldn't have-" "

"It's fine, John. It's all good." A low moan erupted from the other man in the room. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Sammy."

"I feel like shit." Sam complained; John snickered, drawing attention back to him.

"Yeah, well, while you were taking your cat nap, I started bleeding to death. I win." Sam was up and by John's side in mere seconds. "John, you okay? Anything I can do to help? John?" Dean outstretched his arm, blocking acrossed Sam's chest.

"He's fine, Sammy." John grunted as he pushed himself up, with the help of Dean, obviously. Sam hovered around near John, as if expecting him to drop at any second.

"Sam, honestly, I'm fine. I know what I'm doing." "Yeah, gonna be a doctor, Johnny boy?" Dean teased, John grinned and stood to his feet. "Army doctor, yep." Sam patted the British blonde on the back. "Iraq?" John shook his head no, "Afghanistan. Getting out of the job for awhile."

Dean hummed, "Hunting; full time job but the pay is crap." The three demon hunters giggled like school children for a while; it was rare to have a moment of happiness between the young men anymore. Hunting was dangerous, but it was a responsibility. A burden thrust upon them as small children, passed down for generations. This was John Watson's last hunt before being deployed to Afghanistan. To be given a real chance at a life was rare for a hunter, most die during a kill by the hand of some ancient evil. That was most definitely not what he had in mind. Of course, he didn't expect to live a normal life either.

No house on the hill with a white picket fence and beautiful wife. That's just not the way things worked out for hunters, not with all they know about the true evil in the world. Not with what they know about what really lurks in the darkness of the shadows, beneath the bed of children. There are no fairy tales and folklore legends. They are reality. But for now, John was going to become Doctor John Watson, a well respected title he had dreamed about all of his life. The friends stooped back to Dean's beloved black '69 Chevy Impala, also known as his 'baby'.

Sam and John stood back as Dean loaded up the weapons in the back trunk.

"So, John, I um..er.. we're gonna...well...uh.." John coughed lightly and turned to the taller brother. "I know, I'll miss you guys too." The corners of Sam's mouth turned up slightly, portraying a sad smile. John had known the Winchesters from the very beginning. They were his only friends, his family.

He'd see them again, he knows. One day in the distant future. Hopefully.

Six years in Afghanistan changed John Watson forever. When he returned home to London, he suffered from PTSD. Nightmares swamped his once non-existent dreams, and he found himself crying as he lay awake at night.

Hunting had been terrible, but being invalidated from the war was far worse. It had been an ordinary mission, as an army doctor one day, where he had been shot in his shoulder. Wounded, invalidated, scarred, left with a psychosomatic limp and forced to live off of an army wage. His life was an all new type of horror. The only difference between his life as a hunter to his current one; life as a hunter was exciting.

Always adrenaline pumping through your veins, always a new monster to find and kill. New people to meet, new lives to save.

"_Saving people, hunting things, the family business." _Dean Winchester's voice rang in his ear. Oh how he missed them. Life was miserable for Doctor John Watson, Afghanistan was a mistake.

He had no chance at _any_ sort of life now, hunter or not. It wasn't until he met the handsome, eccentric, egotistical genius Sherlock Holmes that John decided life was worth living again. Sherlock was a raving mad-man, who could give you one side-ways glance and recite your entire life story. The only Consulting Detective in the World, he was. And John fell in love. Not romantically, of course, no, John wasn't gay. Isn't gay, and will never be gay. Right?

After two years of constantly chasing the detective around London, capturing class A bad-guys and living in the humble flat of 221b, John nearly forgot all about hunting. He no longer had nightmares, Sherlock helped with that. Every time he had one, Holmes would play a beautiful piece on his violin until John fell asleep again.

He no longer had a limp, Sherlock helped with that too. He had tricked him into running off without his cane, only to discover later that he was walking perfectly without it. That was only on the second night they met. And finally, John wasn't bored anymore, wasn't missing his old life with the Winchesters. He still missed Sam and Dean, but Sherlock filled his life with color and danger, beauty and madness.

He found himself falling for the tall, thin, pale, dark-curly haired detective with the bright blue eyes and high cheekbones. And yes, falling as in romantically. Possibly.

But one cloudy midday, Sherlock Holmes committed suicide.


	2. Wife To Be

John thought that maybe he had felt something new for Sherlock Holmes. Something he never had before. But watching as his best friend jumped from the top of the Reichenbach building, he knew it was true. What he felt was true. Love at it's purest. It had taken his suicide for John to realize it. Only, the realization came too late; Sherlock's body lay sprawled out on the pavement, bloodied and broken, surrounded by passersby.

He could faintly hear himself mumbling, "I'm a doctor, please." And, "He's my friend, he needs me." But all he could do was watch the love of his life be taken away on a stretcher, pulse non-existent. Dead. For two years, John's life returned to the boring, grey dullness it had been after hunting and before Sherlock.

John found that he had enjoyed his hectic life at 221b with Sherlock more than he had fighting supernatural beings with the Winchesters, and that was saying something. Somewhere in the grief, he met a nurse at the hospital he worked at. She was petite, hair dyed blonde, and always wore the brightest smile you could ever imagine.

Her name was Mary Morstan. And John fell in love. Again. This love felt similar to what he had felt with Sherlock. Mary was his shoulder to cry on, his smile when he needed one most. She listened and understood him. He had his scars, he had his baggage, and she loved him anyways. Of course, John missed Sherlock. Every second of every day he missed him, unless he was with Mary. Because Mary was a stable, strong, proud woman that had a wonderful sense of humor, was intelligent and always cheery.

She voiced her opinions without shame and walked with her head raised. The icing on the cake? She was also drop-dead gorgeous.

He had picked a nice restaurant. Elegant, to say the least. Mary sat across from him, grinning madly. The waiter continued to pester them, saying something about wine, but John ignored him.

Nothing could get in the way of this moment. He was to propose to her, _his_ girlfriend. Maybe he could have a real life. A life without demons, without sadness, without Sherlock. Yes, maybe he could get over that exquisite man, and love his wife. John finally turned his attention to the obnoxious waiter, so that he could pop the question to his future fiance.

His beautiful, kind, wonderful…

The waiter removed his glasses. His smile was a faint smirk, eyes electric blue. His skin was porcelain and his hair was a mess of dark brown curls. Sherlock.

The rest of the night was a blur, in all honesty. John walked away with bruised knuckles and Sherlock with a bloody nose. Yes, Sherlock is alive. The details are still hazy on that one, something about snipers and a spider web. Doesn't matter. The suicide was fake, he knew that. That's pretty obvious. The rest he didn't want to know, or maybe he did. Nothing made any sort of sense at the moment.

On another hand, Mary had said yes to the proposal. John Watson was engaged to Mary Morstan. He knew he should be happy, but he just felt dirty. He had realized his feelings for Sherlock were romantic just before he supposedly passed on, but now what? Mary or Sherlock?

Mary. Definitely Mary. John's not gay. Never has been gay and never will be gay. Right? Yes. I think. Possibly.

After just a week, he had forgiven Sherlock for the lies. He hadn't meant to hurt John, but that's the way it worked out. Sherlock agrees to be best man at the wedding in a couple of months, all the while Mary is chattering about decorations and colors and such.

It's all quite amusing, considering John had never thought his life would turn out like this. House on the hill with a white picket fence and beautiful wife. No, he hadn't told any of them about what he really use to do for a living. There are no connections to his old life around any longer. However, the Winchesters are invited to the wedding.

John hadn't seen them in ten years, and at one point they were like younger brothers to him. Annoying, loud, dorky younger brothers.

"Who are the Winchesters?" Mary hummed from the sitting room.

"Hm? Oh, yes, some close buddies of mine from Uni. That's all." That wasn't totally a lie, John had met Sam at Stanford. Not that he went to Stanford; just a nasty poltergeist in one of the dorms.

Sherlock poked his head in from the kitchen.

"As much as I enjoy spending mundane afternoons listening to you two chit-chat, I really must be off."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock was never one for sitting still. Too 'boring'. The last time Sherlock became too bored, he shot holes in the wall of 221b with John's illegal handgun. That was one of the less eventful days, truth be told. As if on cue, John's cell rang.

_**Number Blocked**_

"Who's that, love?" Mary called.

"Blocked number, probably a sales call." Sherlock chimed in.

"How the hell did you know it was blocked? You can't even see the phone." John retorted, Sherlock smirked.

"Never mind that. Answer."

"This is John Watson." Mary giggled from the other room, "Nice doctor voice, John."

He waited for a response, but all that was received was the sound of a static line. Until, finally, a voice.

"Good to hear from ya, Johnny." The man's tone was rough and mature, quite different from Sherlock's silky baritone.

"Dean?"


	3. To Invite The Winchesters

"Heya John. How've you been?" John felt himself pale.

"What is it?" When the Winchester contacted you first, something is wrong. Dean sighed.  
"Can't I just call an old friend of mine without needing something?"  
"Dean."  
"Fine, fine, it's demons. A crap ton of 'em. All flockin' to London. We're not sure why, but they could just be bodyguards."

John looked over his shoulder. Mary and Sherlock were discussing bridesmaids dresses.  
"What about this? Magenta?" Sherlock shakes his head.  
"No, no, lavender looks best."

"Bodyguards for whom?" There's a pause over the line, the connection is weary.  
"We dunno. Could be Lilith."

"Right. Of course," Lilith, one of the most dangerous demons around. Just before his wedding day.  
"Look, Dean, I'm getting married."  
"Well good for you, Watson, tying the knot."  
"You and Sam are invited. I'd appreciate it if you could be there."  
Another pause.

"We'll be there, Johnny. Not matter what. But we do need help. We've got everyone on this, Cas, Bobby, Ellen and Jo. We need ya."  
"I'll do what I can, I don't want my wife involved. Or Sherlock. They don't know what I do..did."

"Sherlock? Who's Sherlock?"  
"My best friend. He'll be the best man at my wedding."

"John, who are you speaking to?" Sherlock called from around the corner.

"Can't wait to meet the guy. Any friend of John Watson's is a friend of mine."  
John chuckled lightly.  
"I dunno if you two will get along very well. Sherlock is.. well, he's Sherlock."

"John!" Sherlock's impatient voice echoed along the halls

"Are you in London?" John asked, ignoring the beckoning.  
"Yeah, just arrived. Didn't have to go by plane, either. God, I love Cas."  
"Love?" John teased.

"Wait, uh, no, not-not like that. Not, Dammit, you know what I mean."  
"Sure I do." John hinted.

Another noise sounded from where Mary and Sherlock resided, a pained groan, almost.

"Bitch."  
"Arse."

Just as John hit disconnect, Sherlock came marching into the room, a scowl on his face.

"What was that sound?" John questioned.

" Who was that? I heard my name." His deep voice came in a growl.  
"That was Dean Winchester. He and his brother, Sam, are coming 'round for the wedding. I was just discussing the best man with him." He grinned at the satisfied detective.

"Very well, now, we're working on the dress colors."  
"I thought you were leaving?" Sherlock smirked.

"Something's changed."

~~~  
Dean stood outside of the church. The wedding venue was beautiful, he and Sam sat and watched and John, one of their closest friends, exchanged vows to his beautiful wife, Mary. He knew it was everything Watson had ever wanted, and he was proud of him. Cas stayed for a short while, shaking hands with John and engaging in a freaky-ass conversation with Sherlock over eyeballs or something.

"Dean. I find that man to be intriguing. His strange mannerisms enlighten me." Dean narrowed his eyes at the angel. No, nobody except for Sam, Dean and Watson knew he was an angel, and they were to keep it that way.

"Yeah, well, don't give yourself away, Cas." Dean was most certainly not jealous. But, maybe it was time for Cas to go. "Heya, Cas. You might wanna angel zap yourself out of here."

Cas turns to Dean, confused. "Why?"  
So that Holmes guy can't put the moves on you. "So there's no risk."  
"No risk of giving yourself away." Yeah, Dean Winchester does not get jealous.

Cas looked out into nothing, nodded, and vanished. Dean's eyes widened as he scanned the surrounding area. Nope, nobody saw that. Thank god.

Or, well, not really.

The ceremony was gorgeous. John and Mary read off their vows, promised to love each other no matter the future, kissed and sipped more wine. Now for the best part, speeches.

Dean rubbed his forehead, wiping the accumulating sweat from his brow. He felt like a dorky seventh grader in this tux. Sam glanced around, feeling slightly wary himself. It's not that they're not happy for John, but something feels..off. He now wishes he hadn't told Cas to leave. Goosebumps creep up Dean's neck. Sam shivers.

John has never felt happier in his life. He's got his beautiful wife, best friends, family and gorgeous wedding. Everything a hunter would never be expected to get. Best part, in all honesty, is that Sherlock is here. Alive, breathing, here.

A chill spirals suddenly down his back. Strange. He peers over to the Winchester brothers, they seem distressed as well. Maybe it's just the Lilith paranoia. Yeah, that has to be it. Anyhow, it's the best man's turn to speak. Sherlock stands, elegant as always.

Everyone fell silent as the best man, Sherlock Holmes, stood to speak. Dean shifted in his seat, something didn't feel right. Sam nudged his shoulder, "Lighten up Dean, it's John's wedding, not a funeral." Dean huffed a low laugh, still feeling uneasy.

"Sorry." Sherlock spared a glance over to his friend, John Watson. John quirked an eyebrow, but didn't question the eccentricity.

He grinned slightly, "Let's play a game." His grin grew larger, although it wasn't his normal smile, warm and rare. No, this one was dark and evil, something out of a young child's nightmare.

Sherlock lowered his head momentarily, only to raise it again.

His once blue eyes were now solid black.

"Let's play murder."


End file.
